


Frail Exaltations

by Probability



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon(ish), Discrimination, Established Relationship, Exalted Plains, Friendship, Gen, Handholding is as graphic as it gets, Language Barrier, M/M, Plot? Never met her, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 19:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20363974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Probability/pseuds/Probability
Summary: Elves are blamed for the undead rising, and oh, he knows this story.





	Frail Exaltations

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, back on my dormant-fandom bullshit. 
> 
> I've put Elven dialogue in guillemotes (« ... ») to distinguish it from Common ('...'). It's standard typesetting in several languages and I find italics makes everyone shouty. Also I'm pretentious.

As they walk the Exalted Plains, yellow grass hisses against their legs and dust lightens their boots. Cassandra’s metal plates heat in the sun and her face reddens. The sides of her neck chafe raw stripes. 

‘You could travel without the armour,’ Levellan offers on the second morning of their detour. He has packed his short leather jacket and tied his green scarf to his belt. He fusses with the strap of his quiver to keep it from digging into his exposed neck. ‘We’re not storming any forts.’ 

‘Now you’ve tempted fate,’ Dorian says, pouring water onto a scrap of fabric and scrubbing dust from his face. 

‘We will surely walk into a rift now,’ she says, arm across her knees as she laces the forearm brace. 

‘Or red lyrium bears,’ Varric says. 

‘We’re at least a day from bear land,’ Levellan says, standing over her to watch the elaborate dressing routine. Everything is packed, the ashes scraped from the fire ring and the horses snuffling at the dead grass. He frowns at Varric. ‘Red lyrium bears?’ 

Varric shrugs. ‘It’s possible, right?’ 

‘Lovely,’ Dorian grumbles, and drapes the soaked rag across the back of his neck. He’s shed little of his usual clothing. For once, he is not ill-suited to the conditions; all his loud wishing for warmer climes seems to be true.

Cassandra swears, sweaty fingers slipping on the leather laces. 

Levellan offers, ‘You could return to the camp. I honestly expect little trouble today, and it’s hardly the most pressing matter.’ This digression is his decision, and their discomfort bothers him more for it.

‘We’ve travelled deserts together,’ she says. ‘Why would I turn back here?’ She looks up at Levellan then, and her voice slows, accent more stilted for it: ‘This is no less important than any other task. Our purpose is to help. The escalation with the Red Templars should not distract us from that.’ 

He frowns at the weight in her words and warns, ‘The Inquisition will gain nothing. Our—Dalish goodwill has little weight, if we gain it at all.’ 

He readies further reasons for her to return to the shade of the base camp. Possibly he can convince Dorian or Varric to accompany her. Then he hears Varric stand behind him and Dorian step closer, and he realises he’s misread their motivations for trekking the Plains with him. 

He nods, waist tipping in the slightest hint of a bow. ‘Very well. If we make good time, we might reach the river before the day’s out.’ 

* * *

The Plains weigh their tongues. They pass road marks in Common praising Andraste and the human heroes of the March. Sometimes they pause to read the plaques, one-by-one, without comment.

Levellan knows this story. He is its legacy: his childhood was ballads, and reenactments, and namesakes, and all history Before or After. He never expected to taste its ash.

They pass hollowed houses and burning roof beams. They feel exposed on the plateau with their packhorses and flashy armour. Even without his jacket, Levellan itches with sweat; they frequently dampen rags and wipe their faces.

At midday, the road rounds an outcropping to reveal another plaque. There’s shade against the rock, a small tree and half-alive grass in its shadow, and Levellan suggests stopping for lunch. He leads the horses to the grass for them to nibble and roots through the packs. 

Cassandra drops onto a rock. Her fringe is pasted to her forehead. ‘I give up,’ she mutters, and begins unlacing the arm braces. ‘We’ve seen nothing but distant wolves all day. I will risk it.’ 

Levellan nudges her ankle with his toe. She looks up, and he quirks a half-smile. The reassurance seems to work; she is less hunched removing pieces of armour. 

Varric swears and makes a Cassandra-like ugh. Levellan peers over the side of the horse to see him turn from the plaque, shaking his head. Dorian remains, arms crossed and back to them as he stares at the marker. 

‘What is it?’ Cassandra asks. Varric stomps over and takes Levellan’s offered food with a wave. 

‘This place,’ he grumbles, sitting down. ‘I’d burn it to the ground if it wasn’t already.’

‘What part of the story have we reached?’ Levellan asks, nodding to the plaque. 

Varric says, ‘I won’t try to pronounce her name. The last stand warrior elf.’ 

‘Lindiranae,’ Levellan says. 

‘Yeah, her,’ Varric says. 

Levellan nods, and Cassandra stands to go read rather than ask. Levellan tilts his head at their backs and says, ‘I take it her story isn’t often told?’

Varric bites into a strip of jerky and says, ‘Funny enough, no. At least in the north, the March was an ancient victory. Occasionally gets mentioned in Chantry talk.’ 

‘The Chantry has no desire to give the elves names, much less tragic heroes,’ Cassandra says, returning. ‘But I had to study the March; these plaques are quotes from a book. I would guess the March was taught very differently to you.’ 

Levellan nods and picks through dried dates. He hears Dorian walk over. The silence is atypical, but Levellan daren’t prod it here. ‘Our whole history is oriented around the March. There are a many more tales like Lindiranae’s, mostly sung about.’ He grimaces. ‘Solas would say most of them were never real.’ 

‘I’ve heard you and Solas, ah, debate that,’ Dorian says. ‘You two had very different educations.’ 

‘And tolerances for narrative license,’ Levellan says. 

‘I have to know, did you actually spit on him?’ Dorian asks. ‘The shouting wasn’t in Common, so I wasn’t sure what had happened.’ 

Levellan says, ‘On his feet.’ Varric laughs and Cassandra’s jaw drops. 

‘I’ve never... you?’ she says, while Varric chuckles. 

Levellan’s grins. Tipping his head towards her, he says, ‘I assure you, your Inquisitor won’t spit on any noblemen. I was goading him; it’s a very Dalish insult.’ 

‘Well, that explains why you didn’t bring him here,’ Dorian says. 

Levellan’s ears tip low. ‘The lectures would be endless. He’d have tossed me in the Fade by now. And I’m not even proper Dalish.’

A strange silence falls; the grass susses in a hot breeze. He looks up to see everyone staring. It has become familiar, but not so much with his friends, and he says, ‘What?’ 

‘Proper Dalish?’ Varric prompts. 

‘You’ve always been very proud of your heritage,’ Cassandra says. 

Levellan huffs. ‘There is no need to defend me from myself. You will see when we meet the clan.’ 

Not long after lunch, they see the plateau slope ahead. In the distance is green, a promise of thin forest and cliffs. They pass a shallow hill with a bowl scooped from its side. A pillar and a statue of a wolf flank it, and Levellan stops, his horse snorting when the lead tugs. 

‘Glowy?’ 

The pillar is Elven, the carved words worn so only half are legible. Its base is surrounded with dry plants. The wolf has graffiti on its base, mostly in Common or Orlesian, but there’s an Elven phrase roughly carved on its flank. 

Dorian says, ‘Quentin?’ 

He shakes his head and walks on. He’s gotten grit in his throat and it burns. Silence travels with them all the way to the river and the first glimpse of red sails. 

* * *

Keeper Hawen of Clan Lamae greets him in Elven; the other three stand back, taking in the camp silently. Eyes watch them in turn, some openly from the fire and pitched tarps, some from the shelter of trees and aravels.

«You are far from your homeland» Hawen says. Levellan’s henna-dark skin and shorn hair give away his origin. Hawen’s eyes are river-pale, his hair snow. «You have vallaslin but travel without your clan. Who are you?»

«I am Cuíntene of Clan Levellan, Keeper of the Inquisition» he says, then muddles through his usual three-sentence explanation of the Inquisition and its intentions. He has never explained in Elven before; all of Skyhold’s elves are Common fluent. He adds, «We are here to drive away the undead and thought to see if your sails are whole.»

They are here because he overheard men in the last fort blame the elves for the undead rising, and oh, how he knows that story.

Hawen frowns at him and then eyes his companions. They all smile in awkward silence; Varric waves and says, ‘Nice boats.’ 

«You’ve left your clan.» It is suspicious, but Mythal’s pale roots across Levellan’s forehead must stop him short of outright accusations of being an outsider. 

«My clan is scattered.» His ears go back, despite his will to stay formal. He swallows more grit in his throat and remembers the statue from earlier, with its prayers for the dead scratched over Andraste’s praises. His clan has no memorial. «And I must finish this journey.»

Hawen has no sense of the density up north or the way Clan Levellan lived in the shadows of cities. He would have no sympathy for the noble’s betrayal, just condescension for engaging with him in the first place. But tragedies, at least, are familiar; Hawen dips his head and offers a short prayer to Andruil. 

«We are whole» Hawen says, «though I admit our aravels are light. The shem have scattered and we are wary of overhunting so early in the year. You’ve come far from the forts to find us; we can offer hospitality for the night.» He eyes the companions loitering behind Levellan and adds, «Can you, as their Keeper, promise their intentions?»

Dorian, looking at the river, stands with his arms crossed and head tilted towards them. None of them know a word of Elven, but they’re tense and seeking reassurances in tone. 

Ah, yes, Levellan thinks. The Chantry Seeker, the dwarf, and the Tevinter mage walk into an aravel... 

He says, «They are my clan now. But we will not take space in your aravels. The shelter of your company is honour enough.»

Non-elves entering an aravel would cause uproar; some clans would sink it after such contamination, though this clan clearly deals with shem enough to trade for food. Still, Hawen smiles in relief for Levellan’s tact. 

Then, in accented Common, he says, ‘You are most welcome, Keeper Cuíntene and Clan Inquisition.’ 

The three startle at the familiar words. It is also a signal; the tension snaps like a branch and the elves come to life. Some return to work, but a pair of young girls, just shy of marking, crawl under an aravel to Hawen’s side and eye the newcomers. A smaller boy, perhaps less than eight, joins too. 

Levellan’s three have come closer, his formalities complete. Varric says, ‘You speak Common, then?’ 

‘When we must,’ the keeper says. ‘Not all of us. These young ones know very little.’ 

«I’ve never met a dwarf» the boy says. He waves at Varric and says, «I’m Emilian.» 

«His name is Varric» Levellan says. Then, to Varric, ‘He says his name is Emilian. He’s excited to have met his first dwarf.’ 

Varric laughs and waves back. ‘Good to meet ya too, kid.’ 

«The shems are very tall» the girl says, staring unabashedly at Dorian, who has come to stand at Levellan’s side. «Is he magic?»

Dorian’s staff is topped with a silver-fixed blue crystal. He tilts his head at Levellan in question; the staring rather gives away that he is the topic of conversation. 

«He is. He is a very kind mage» Levellan reassures. The clan seems not to have a mage of their own, which could make them that much more wary. At least they don’t recognise him as Tevinter, remote as they are. 

Then Dorian bows, low and exaggerated, which makes the eyes of the three children—and Hawen—go wide. Dorian says, stilted and slow, «It is most joy to meet you. I am Dorian of Pavus Clan.» 

The grammar is wrong: he uses the singular _you_ rather than the plural, and he uses the name-stem for clan. It’s a faux pas for a human, but the effort is clearly appreciated, as the girl claps and the boy immediately barrages him with questions about his magic. 

Levellan gapes; he hears little of the boy’s chatter and forgets to translate. 

Varric elbows him. 

He inhales so sharp it’s nearly a gasp, and he shakes the shock from his head. Behind him, Cassandra snorts. 

Hawen says, slower for Dorian’s benefit, «It is an honour to meet you, Dorian. You are learning the Language.»

Dorian grins. After a pause to find the words, he says, «I am—apprentice? Student. I am a student.» He grimaces in apology. «There is not much books on the Language.»

Hawen laughs. It’s short and light, and Dorian frowns, perhaps concerned of accidental insult, but Levellan nods reassurance. Hawen says, ‘Shem rarely take interest in our language. But you have a true speaker next to you, no?’ His smile tilts and he eyes Levellan. «It seems you travel with a scholar, lethillan.»

«He is fond of words. And his own voice.» They’re too quick for Dorian to keep up fully, he suspects; the man’s brow furrows. 

«I suspect it is not the words he is fond of» Hawen says, and the children at his legs giggle. 

‘Ah,’ Dorian says, looking for help from Levellan. 

‘They are... impressed,’ Levellan says, and Varric laughs outright. 

* * *

Cassandra is recruited into helping the women pound roots into flour for leaching, and Varric spins tales with the clan’s two main memorizers—the historians and storytellers. Dorian hobbles through more Elven with a young woman who knows Common well enough to explain some grammar; Dorian offers Common idioms in return. 

Levellan chats with everyone. It is a small group, two splinters of their hale men off hunting and scouting upriver. There are a dozen in the camp now: six women, five children, and the keeper. Bewildered by his dual status as elf and authority figure, Clan Lamae oscillate between embracing him as a stray and wary formality. 

It doesn’t help being the only elf in his group. If it weren’t for the distance the others kept, he would be accused of being a pet or city dweller. But leading an army does, despite all natural tendencies, give him a straight back and decisive speech. When the herbalist mentions running low on blood lotus, he says, «We can bring you some. How much?» 

It is not a slave’s deferment. It is a keeper’s tone, and that they recognise, even if he doesn’t recognise himself. 

Their aravels are red. Clan Levellan’s were rust-orange, dyed from a root powder. They were striking in the greens and granites of the Free Marches, particularly on dark, rainy days. 

The Elven is swollen in his mouth, the vowels heavy in his throat, the consonants hissed through more air than Common. His northern accent is exotic to Lamae; they strike the Ts and they shorten the A’s more. 

Laughter breaks out at the circle of women around Cassandra. She grins, clutching the grindstone, and the women praise her strength in a mix of Common and Elven. 

The sun dips behind one of the Plain’s spires. They have at least an hour until dinner. Satisfied that his three are in good care, he slips around an aravel and treks to the pebbled creek shore. The stones clack under his heavy boots; he is grateful to have shed his leather coat in the heat. 

He wades the shallow water and weaves through the herd of white halla in the valley beyond. In the north, white is rare; tan is the norm. He winds around a spire and spots the ruins of a temple and the larger river the tributary feeds. The sun gilds the water. 

It is so far from the Free Marches. 

He drops, there, in the shade of the spire. The halla, eased by his stillness, return to grazing. 

The grit in his throat flares hot again. This time, he lets it burn up his neck, and he raises his hands to his face. 

A breeze shushes the grass. A halla huffs. 

* * *

He hears footsteps before they round the spire. Heavy steps: shod and not sneaking. He didn’t weep, but he scrubs his face in case his eyes are veined and sits straight. 

‘Ah, there you are.’ Dorian smiles down. ‘At least you didn’t climb up one of these blasted pillars. Varric wanted to bet on it.’ 

‘How much has he lost?’ 

‘None. Cassandra gave him one of those scowls that ignite objects and he got press-ganged into rolling flour.’

Levellan nods and turns back to the grazing halla. Dorian, with a clatter of buckles, sits next to him and leans against the stone. Levellan sits cross-legged, in line with Dorian’s knees. 

‘They are quite different from you,’ Dorian says. ‘Is that what you meant by proper Dalish?’ 

A halla lifts its head and freezes, alerted; its ears swivel and its neighbours still, sensing its tension. Watching them, Levellan says, ‘Mostly, yes. I am Dalish, but perhaps an unusually...’ He grimaces, the March bitter in his mind, but finishes, ‘Perhaps an unusually tame one.’ 

Dorian snorts. ‘No one would mistake you for tame.’ 

‘The Clan would,’ he says. 

‘You lead an army and change the world on your terms alone,’ Dorian says. ‘You are swayed by none but those whose counsel you’ve chosen. That is not tame.’ 

‘Nor is it Dalish,’ he snaps, then sighs. As apology, he says, ‘This place weighs on me.’

‘I would expect so.’ The palm-width between their knees is suddenly distance, and Levellan places a hand on Dorian’s knee. Dorian covers it with his own hand, quick enough to make Levellan realise he’d been holding back.

He looks over his shoulder at Dorian and says, ‘I am glad you’re here. It must not be enjoyable to you either.’ 

‘At least it’s warm.’ Dorian tips his head, puzzling, and the scrutiny makes Levellan turn away. He watches the Halla startle at some unknown signal and bound away down-river. Dorian shifts, just outside his sight, and says, ‘They judge your association with humans.’

To the distant river, he says, quietly, ‘Not just humans.’

Dorian shifts. The sun falls slowly. In a bit of a rush, Dorian says, ‘I confess. When we…’

Levellan looks over his shoulder, one brow raised at the hesitation. He fights a smile, but Dorian meets the challenge.

‘I enjoy spitting in any fool’s eye that thinks I can be shamed for joining the Inquisition, much less—well.’ Levellan chuffs laughter, but Dorian finishes, ‘I didn’t consider what you’d suffer associating with me.’

Levellan inhales hot, dusty air and turns to the river’s false gold. His hand seizes around Dorian’s fingers. He scrambles to find words in Common. How can he explain honour, the way he’d priced his pittance and found it not even the most costly loss in this involuntary life? Dreading what ineloquence brews in his mouth, he tries, ‘There are few redeeming—’

«Keeper Levellan! Keeper Levellan!»

His breath catches at the high cry, the way it twists around spires without source, and he scrambles up. He has his bow but is lightly dressed; he’s relieved to see the staff across Dorian’s back.

They round the stone. A woman is running, arm high and waving, towards the wrong spire. Levellan raises two fingers and whistles. 

They meet halfway, and she’s gasping. «Shem, shem. Scouts saw—one hurt.»

Fear’s universal; Dorian’s face falls. Levellan orders, «Follow the halla. Stay away for now.»

«My daughter—»

«Stay _away» _he snaps. «They blame you for the undead. We will send the others to meet you.»

Her face crumples. Levellan cannot see hope in her washed-out eyes. She says, «Do you forget your past? Here?»

He flinches as if struck. The humans have decided their guilt; to appease their anger without violence is blindly naive to her. 

Dorian places a hand on his upper arm. ‘What’s happening?’ 

He says, «Go. I ruin myself, but I do not surrender.»

It’s a frail echo of their fundamental mantra: _Never again. _But with one long look, a judgment, she darts down the gentle slope to the main river. 

He runs the other way, feet shoe-heavy. _Never again, never again. _Even if they burn; even if they are ruined. He remembers a wolf with dead prayers on its haunches. 

He weaves through thigh-high grass, gold as chantry crests. Before the ridge, where the tips of red sails peak over but he’s still unseen, he skids to a stop and yanks an arrow from his quiver, unslings his bow—

‘_Inquisitor,’ _Dorian hisses, and a raven launches from a birch ahead screeching. 

Dorian snags the sash around his waist, and says, low to not carry over the hill, ‘Do not charge in blind.’ 

Do not be blind. Do not be foolish. Be pragmatic. His pragmatism exterminated his clan. 

He’d thought the fire in his throat was tears, not a howl. 

There are no shouts; the humans have not reached the camp yet. But the laughter has been snuffed. He does not need to crest the hill to know women are clambering into the aravels, snatching knives and food, preparing to scatter into the woods. They are vulnerable alone, but at least some will survive to reconvene. The men will return from their hunt to burned aravels and ashes. 

‘Quentin,’ Dorian pleas. There’s something desperate in it, almost a whine, and finally Levellan looks over his shoulder. Dorian is tall, muscular, with facial hair and fancy clothes. And Levellan, bastardised: the ears and slightness, but shod and carrying all the fine-crafted arrows he could ever waste, Common warping his tongue. 

Dorian’s face is twisted as if in pain. He says, ‘Do we talk them down?’ 

Like any squabble the Inquisition interrupts: diplomacy, subterfuge, aggression. Pick your gamble, Inquisitor; does the mark not make you an augur? _I ruin myself, _he confessed. His pragmatism wins him respect among all races except his own.

He heaves a breath full of dust and whispers, ‘I tire of talking.’ 

Dorian half-smiles, but doesn’t speak. Deferring, and anger spikes at having all difficulties passed to him. He turns and walks, and Dorian’s hand drops from his belt. ‘I tire of talking.’ 

Dorian says, ‘We are here to help. Remember.’ 

He tires of remembering.

He knocks an arrow but holds the bow at his hip. When he reaches the ridge, he winces at the evening glare off the shallow river. 

‘Glowy!’ 

Varric waves at the foot of an aravel. Levellan catches a silver gleam: Cassandra, hands on hips and back to him, surveying the path across the river where the humans will descend. 

The elves dart silent, supplies in arms. The children are minded by one of the women, wide-eyed and silent, as she pours water over the fire. Smoke hisses; she waves her arms through it, trying to scatter it into a less distinct column. 

Levellan trots down the slope and Varric says, ‘She found you then?’ 

He walks straight to Keeper Hawen. «The injured one?»

«He can walk.»

Cassandra’s stilted Common cuts, ‘Inquisitor. The scout said there were about fifteen men, armed.’ 

Hawen scowls at Levellan. «You do not intend to challenge them.»

Varric and Dorian flank him. Varric says, ‘We’ve had worse odds.’ 

Levellan’s hold on the bowstring goes slack. Bare feet pad the dusty ground; a woman, trotting close to the river, clatters gravel. 

He stares at Varric, then Cassandra, her arms crossed. She has put her armour back on; the horses are still tied to saplings by the now-scattered fire. 

He says, ‘You do not have to—’ 

‘Inquisitor,’ she interrupts. 

‘I, for one, am hankering for a fight,’ Varric says. ‘But you’re in charge,’ he reminds himself.

After a silence where Levellan struggles for words—he once considered himself eloquent—Dorian adds, ‘I seem to remember a story about chasing a bull halfway across the Hinterlands?’

Cassandra snorts. ‘Two-thirds of the Hinterlands.’ 

Varric adds, ‘Count yourself lucky, Sparkles, that you weren’t there.’ 

No task too menial, indeed. He manages, faintly, mind still fixed on their loyalty, ‘That fucking bull.’ 

Varric and Dorian burst out laughing at the curse; Cassandra, cheeks pink, says, ‘We stand by you.’ 

He meets her eyes and hears the steps of Varric and Dorian close in. He nods, once, slow enough to be a bow, and turns to Hawen. «Do not split this time. Follow the halla. We can defend the aravels.»

«You cannot be sincere.»

Levellan quirks a grin, despite himself. «The Inquisition does not run from monsters.»

It sounds arrogant, and Hawen pokes his chest with a finger. «Dressing like a shem does not make you one. They will still kill you, human-pet.» 

‘Hey now,’ Varric says, his first hard-voiced snap; he must recognise the insult from somewhere, or at least the tone of voice. 

Levellan’s hand twists around the bow’s leather grip. He hears the first distant shout, Common-harsh. Hawen hisses, ears flaring. 

Levellan says, short, «Stay together. We will signal when it is safe to return.»

They stare at each other, Hawen’s pale eyes wide and his breaths fear-quick. The other elves have clustered, supplies tied in satchels around their shoulders and the smallest children hoisted onto hips. They wait for Hawen’s signal to scatter. 

Levellan stares back, a dare in his flat stare. «You’ve little to lose, Keeper.»

Finally, Hawen breaks away. He calls to the others, «We run to the halla. Stay together unless we are attacked.»

* * *

The dozen-odd men tumble down the hill with swords, scythes, a couple bows, a handful of torches the colour of the setting sky. They stalk up to the aravels, splashing across the shallow river, then bump into each other when the front line halts. 

On the ground: Cassandra, fish-silver, with a battle axe; Varric’s crossbow levelled at the nearest chest; Dorian with ice and blue sparks tingling along the staff and his forearms. On the prow of an aravel, Levellan lines up an arrow, string half-drawn. 

A greyed man with a sword shouts, ‘Are they hiding in the boats?’ 

‘They’re long gone,’ Levellan calls. 

‘You’re not, knife-ear.’ 

Dorian crackles; sparks jump free and frost spots of ground white. The nearest men shuffle into a tighter huddle, and Dorian smirks. 

Cassandra says, ‘They are not responsible for the undead. They have no quarrel with you.’ 

‘You believe them?’ 

‘We do,’ she says. ‘So does the Inquisition.’ 

Personification is effective shorthand. A few of the men near the back mutter to each other. At least one looks familiar; perhaps they have spoken in the past days. 

Another, younger and emboldened with his torch, says, ‘Yeah, what’s it to us? You gonna tell its leader on us for protecting ourselves?’ 

‘I am the leader,’ Levellan says, ‘and this is not self defence.’ 

Someone guffaws at his claim. He sometimes wishes he’d indulged Cassandra’s wish for blatant insignia, instead of his forest-mute green and leather. A gold crown would be laughable on him, but at least it would be obvious. 

Varric says, ‘Bianca’s getting antsy. I reckon you all should head home and sleep off that itch to fight.’ 

It’s fifteen to four, but then, none of the fifteen have magic or a double-bladed battleaxe. Still, one of the men reckons the odds differently: he snaps his bowstring taught and Levallan flips off the aravel to the ground, the arrow a whistle far above. 

It would likely have gone wide, but the motion’s startling, and Dorian, with a sweep of his staff, snuffs the torches. Bianca twangs and someone cries hoarse rage-pain.

‘Enough!’ Cassandra barks. Levellan trots around the aravel, bow raised to the nearest man, but they’ve shied back. A bolt’s stuck in a thigh, staining dark; he’s hoisted upright by his neighbour.

Levellan’s blood is humming.

The mark shivers up his arm; it green-stains the fletching in his grip. He has a sudden, sharp urge to fire the arrow between eyes. He can rip reality in two and have the nothingness devour them all.

‘I warned ya,’ Varric says, cocking a fresh bolt.

‘Clan Lamae is under protection,’ Levallan calls, nearly sing-songing in his battle thrill. ‘You have no right to harm them or their property.’

He can rend voids into their chests and _explode them all in green flares—_

‘The hell we don’t,’ one snarls. ‘Who do y’all think you are, telling us how to handle our matters?’

‘The Inquisition,’ Dorian says, taught with no-patience. ‘I distinctly recall you being told that already, or has fear eaten your one collective wit?’

One raises a scythe and steps from the herd. Levellan aligns his arrow to his nose, and the man halts. Eyes dart between the four, who have spread into an arc around the pack: their only gap is back the way they came.

‘I tire of talk,’ Levallan says, and Dorian laughs. ‘You have until ten to leave. If we hear of retribution, we will return with more, and you will prefer the undead to our company.’

For effect, because if he can’t kill them he can at least have fun, he fires the arrow into a snuffed torch; the man squawks and drops it at the _thunk. _Hand now free, Levellan raises it and lets the itch flare into green light, sputtering up his arm and casting him demonic in the late-light gold. ‘One, two, three…’

They turn tail. Not to be outdone on marksmanship, Varric fires a bolt into another torch and chuckles at the yelp.

The mark gutters to a glow. It’ll go dark when he calms.

At the top of the far hill, the men are backlit by the half-swallowed sun into black shapes; Levellan cannot discern faces or split huddles into individuals. Still, something makes Cassandra cry, ‘Don’t—’

Fire lights his arm and a string pings.

He folds to one knee. Still clutching his bow, he stares at the arrow in his right upper arm. The tan feathers are zigzagged black.

Dorian shouts his name. He tries to inhale and catches on pain halfway. The ground’s stained green, flickering like hunger.

The green grows vines towards the devoured sun.

The men chorus shouts. Levellan thinks, _Make them fear. _

His senses return when Dorian, smelling of snow, wraps an arm around his waist to keep him from face-planting. He says, low in his ear, too low for others, _Quentin, calm. Calm! _

Which language? He blinks at the glittering stream, puzzling through the scorch in his mind and arm and whole upper body, as Cassandra shouts, ‘Inquisitor, enough! Control it!’

‘Stop glowing, Glowy!’

He coughs and everything _flares, _whites his mind, but it startles the mark, splintering the ropes of green light wrapped around throats and limbs, and with a curled fist it scatters like smoke to nothing. The men run, heavy weapons dropped in their panic.

‘They’re gone,’ Dorian says. ‘They’re gone. Everyone’s safe.’

_Good, _he thinks, but if he opens his mouth, he’ll be sick.

He breathes. This occupies his mind for a time, breathing, the novel agony of it. Someone says something. He has to back-translate, mind muddled: _It’s just shock. We’ll need to leave it in until we return to main camp. _

Dorian says, ‘Can you walk?’

He swallows thick spit, once, twice, then leans on Dorian’s shoulder and stands. He manages to focus on Cassandra in front of him, who nods at the progress.

‘The clan,’ he manages.

Varric says, ‘One of us can get them.’

He tries to nod, but the dip of his head rims his sight black and his good arm rises, searching for something to grasp; Dorian catches him under the shoulder, lets him sway into the hold.

‘Dorian,’ he says.

‘I’d rather go back with you.’

He hasn’t the means to explain his reasoning, but fortunately Cassandra says, ‘You speak at least a little Elven.’

‘Will they have gone far?’ Varric says. ‘Carrying kids and all that gear?’

Levellan whispers, ‘Halla. You saw them,’ he tells the ground, and hopes Dorian catches on. ‘Down…’ he has to pause to swallow. ‘River.’

‘Downriver,’ Dorian says. ‘Right. If I make signals and a ruckus to draw them out of hiding, will they kill me?’

Levellan grins. It must not be reassuring, because Varric grimaces. ‘Let’s get him back. Sparkles can catch up with us.’

He remembers little of the return, the arrow lodged through his red-seeping arm. Cassandra must lead the horse for him. The sun sets and the world slowly bleeds its colour.

* * *

The tent’s hot and boring.

The arrow was meant to kill; the fletching was wonky, adding spin and veering the aim. But even a clean shot through the arm leaves him unfit for combat for weeks. Time at last to catch up on paperwork in Skyhold. He groans and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

Alone in the sun-glowed tent, sweating and a little lonely, he indulges his delight at the pain-fuzzed memory of the men’s startled cries, their flight, the aravels still whole.

He has felled dragons. Let them fear an elf.

At night, alone and aching in his arm and hips from lying in the cot too long, guilt cinches his chest. He has not lost control since the early days, before he understood the mark’s responsiveness to his moods and rifts. This is not his first injury nor will it be his last. If he faints in battle, will the power lash out indiscriminately? Will it carry his vengefulness and slaughter humans?

He blames the poor sleep on the arm.

Early on the third day, Dorian returns. Dust-gilded, he sweeps into the tent and says, ‘I spent the extra days with them, in case they were attacked before they could move on. Sorry for the delay.’

Levellan, sat in the cot with a report in his lap, smiles. Dorian, propping his staff against the central tent post, stares.

Levellan says, ‘Thank you.’ Then, smile skewing funny, «Thank you.»

Dorian huffs and resumes motion. ‘My head aches from all the Elven. I’m not good enough to keep up, but the clan kept asking me things. I’ve never felt so moronic.’ He drops onto the foot of he cot with a sigh and unlaces his boots.

Levellan prods his hip with his toe. Dorian looks up, and Levellan forgets his lines.

Dorian says, ‘I’m glad to see you well.’

‘Ugh,’ Levellan says. ‘I’ll be a monster in a week, stuck at the desk.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Dorian says, dry. The first boot thumps to the ground. Levellan’s ears tip back in embarrassment. Dorian grins, noticing, and says, ‘You really must stop these near-death experiences.’

Levellan huffs. Dorian says, waving a hand, ‘I know, I know, important duties and all that.’

He says, ‘I lost control.’ The words are ice in his mouth. He looks at the papers in his lap.

Dorian sighs. ‘It’s… not unlike magic. Mages—all of us—have our moments. Sometimes they are our last.’

It’s understanding, if not absolution. Levellan nods, grateful for it. ‘Oh. Dorian?’

He hums acknowledgement, yanking his boot free and thumping grit from inside.

Levellan says, ‘You are worth far more honour than I have left to give. But for what it’s worth, you redeem this life.’

Dorian drops his shoe.

Levellan nods to himself, pleased he’d delivered his answer correctly. He’d had two days to consider it in Common.

Dorian inhales, long and ragged, and scrubs the side of his face with a hand. ‘What—where did that even _come from?’ _

‘I didn’t get to respond before the camp was attacked.’

‘What in—’ He coughs on words. ‘The things you say! Warn a man next time, won’t you?’

‘No promises,’ he says, and there’s teeth in his smile. Take _that, _he thinks, recalling lines Dorian said just to watch him flail.

Dorian looks like he’s been hit in the face with a frying pan. Levellan takes pity on him and says, ‘Cassandra wants to return to Skyhold. There’s work to be done here still.’

Seizing the normalcy, Dorian points out, ‘You have an army that can do it for you.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes. I’m glad, this time. I admit I… find this place hateful.’

Dorian grimaces and reaches for Levellan’s hand. The mark’s just a dark scar in his palm; Dorian holds it without sparks, and Levellan’s relieved there’s no instinctual resistance to a human’s touch. There never has been before, but then, he’s never attacked a pack of idiotic farmers before either.

The camp burbles outside. It’s soothing as a river.

Dorian murmurs, «You do well, Quentin.»

He still pronounces his Common-ised name. He doesn’t mind. Cuíntene was another life, though he has his training as second to thank for his familiarity with humans. He is no Josephine, but at least he’d negotiated before, learned high-register Common and debased himself in the name of pragmatism.

He is glad, this time, that a clan did not have to choose between submission and annihilation. For that, he can suffer ruination and scorn.

His fingers curl around Dorian’s hand. His arm burns. ‘Do you care for music?’

Dorian leans back onto a forearm, hand still held. ‘I’m no talent, but I enjoy it well enough. Why?’

‘We have songs,’ he says. ‘Perhaps, if you still want to learn, I could teach you some.’ He adds, lighter, ‘I suddenly seem to find myself with time to spare.’

Dorian smiles. ‘I’d be honoured.’

Outside, the sun scorches ghosts from the Plains. Soldiers stake Inquisition flags into its bone-dead dirt.

Levellan, humming a song, steals the moment’s peace.


End file.
